


The Crying Ashes

by PhantasmagoricReverie



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Romance, F/M, Gen, Slow Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:33:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25396201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhantasmagoricReverie/pseuds/PhantasmagoricReverie
Summary: All things come to nothing, and some things, even less.Alternatively, a Xaela finds her way to Ishgard and what ensues as a result.  This is more OC exploration than anything, but you know… implied romance.
Relationships: Aymeric de Borel/Original Character(s), Estinien Wyrmblood/Original Character(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	1. Scales of Blue and Red

**Author's Note:**

> Not even I know how much of this is canon for the OC featured in this work.... I will update, essentially, whenever I feel like it, so please don't expect much. I hope you enjoy this project of mine nonetheless.

She has traveled far and wide across the realm, throughout Othard, into Eorzea. There is something that calls her, leading her ever onward. It is insistent, this calling, this sensation that leaves little room for negotiation. And so she presses on, the hem of her hakama brushing against her boots as they crush the snow underfoot. She can feel the blood seeping through her bandages. Perhaps she should have heeded the advice of the innkeeper that tried to stop her before she left. Her injuries clearly hadn’t healed enough, yet here she is in the central highlands of Coerthas, reopening her wounds with her carelessness.

She’ll be fine, she’s traveled harsher roads—though perhaps none as cold as this one—and Ishgard is not so far as to require her to cease her progress. _Onward._ It doesn’t hurt quite so much as to steal her breath away. _Ever onward._ Once she’s in Ishgard she’ll find an in and rest properly. _Relentlessly press on._

There’s the sound of blood rushing through her veins. The world cuts out from an expanse of white to an abyss of black. Dusk Mother, please, she offers up a prayer to Nhaama, a desperate plea that she will not perish so far from home, away from the grasslands where her family wait for her. She pleads with the goddess to see her to Ishgard safely.

A glimpse of iridescent wings, cerulean and carmine both, flutter past her line of vision, barely within sight. The Xaela turns, her silent prayer abandoned half-finished as she seeks the source, but only sees karakul in the snow, bleating as they move in a predictable pattern. Nothing. Goodness, had she lost so much blood as to become delirious? Placing a clawed hand to the abdomen reveals that her blood has soaked through. At least her kimono is red-it should serve to make the scarlet stain less noticeable.

There’s another fluttering, the same iridescent colors that flickered into her vision. It’s too cold in Coerthas for butterflies—

“But this…” Her voice trails off and she feels her body sway. It seems she will find her way into the arms of Nhaama this night. She forces herself to keep her body upright. Something dark enters her vision but her eyes have lost their focus. Who is that? She collapses, wondering who that dark figure belonged to. She sees her hand stretched out in the snow, her lustrous black scales like ink on precious parchment. The butterfly flutters into her outstretched palm, as languidly as the falling snow.

The calling quiets.


	2. Scarlet Delirium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Xaela wakes up in an unfamiliar place and comes face to helm with her savior.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was gonna save this chapter for later, but I'll post it anyway www

The sound of a crackling fire is the first thing she registers. The ticks of her comprehension come slowly. Her eyes open. It’s dark, her eyes can’t focus on anything. The Xaela sits up, ignoring the protests of her body. She looks into her palm. There is no delicate insect, no imperceptible scales to suggest that such a vision had been no more substantial than a dream. Her eyes snap back into focus: following that visual clarity, mental clarity soon follows suit.

Her sword!

Where is her sword, that beloved katana that the swordmaster had entrusted to her? Clawed fingers search the immediate vicinity as her eyes scan the space around her. She sees her sword propped up against a wall, a short distance away. Thank goodness. She moves to disengage from the covers she found herself under, when a voice alerts her to another presence.

“I wouldn’t advise moving around so much.” The voice is blunt, the common tongue tinged with the distinct accent of Ishgard. Further observation has her meet with a man, clad head to toe in armor. Ah, the dark figure from before must have been him.

She pauses, but vocalizes no answer. If she is understanding the situation correctly, then a thanks is in order. Her present circumstances may not allow her to bow, but she lowers her head in his direction, soft brown hair falling in front of her shoulders. Her Ishgardian is more heavily accented than in the common tongue, but she feels she should put in at least this much effort. “Thank you very much for your help.”

There’s no response and she wonders if her voice had been too soft to be heard. Taking a deep breath, she disentangles herself from her bedding and approaches her sword. Biting her tongue to deal with the pain, she approaches the katana. Yes, the rich black lacquer is unchipped and it seems everything is in order. A sigh of relief escapes her lips, even if her breath hitches with the pain she feels.

“You’re an idiot.” He scoffs at her, clearly unimpressed. Seeing no need for formalities, he speaks in the tongue of Ishgard.

“A swordsman’s weapon is like their soul.” And being without a weapon in a foreign land with a man whose name she did not yet know filled her heart with a disquieting anxiety. It is the prominence of her anxiety that allows her to realize that the calling she felt so strongly and constantly has abated to little more than a whisper. Does it have something to do with the man before her? Is it perhaps the Holy See itself? Perhaps it is something different altogether. Perhaps there is no answer.

The crackling of the fire eats away at the silence as it gnaws through lumber. Cradling the sword in her arms like something unspeakably precious, she turns to face the armored man. That sort of armor with all its spires and spikes is indicative of one thing. With the selfsame smile she has used throughout her journey, her lips part for a single utterance.

“I didn’t expect The Azure Dragoon himself to carry me into Ishgard.”

“Cheeky, aren’t you?”

A small laugh. “Not usually, only when I am half-delirious from a loss of blood, my good dragoon.” Her eyes light up with mirth, that brilliant limbal ring making her eyes appear gold in the dim firelight. Still, she had come to Ishgard with purpose, not to treat with presumably handsome Elezen man. “Say, are there any tales of swords in these parts?”

“Swords? I can’t say I’ve heard anything. Aymeric may know something.”

“Ah, a Ser Aymeric, I see.” As she muses aloud, she attaches the sword to her waist, its rightful place. The familiar weight is comforting, the presence of her constant companion is nearly enough to forget the pain of her injuries. Stroking the hilt of her blade, she welcomes it back to its rightful place. By her side.

“I should go, now. Thank you for the hospitality and the assistance.” The Xaela dips into what might pass as a bow, collecting both herself and her things.

“You should rest more.”

“Yes, at an inn. I am not the sort of woman to stay at a man’s house, regardless of how handsome you may be under the helm.”

“So you think I’m handsome?”

“Either that or hideously ugly.” She shrugs.

“Cheeky little Au Ra, aren’t you?”

“Only when I’m—”

“—half-delirious from blood loss. Yes, yes.” Her only response is to laugh, in the delicate and gentle way she has from the start.

“Pray, do tell me your name the next we meet, Azure Dragoon.”

When she closes the door behind her, he realizes that he doesn’t know her name either.


	3. Split Wings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are limits to most things. Perhaps all things have a limit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ended up more of a short introspection chapter… Not sure if I really like this, but oh well

The Au Ra makes her way to the Forgotten Knight, settling into an inn room. At last, it feels as if she can breathe. She discards her sword onto the bed, gently running her fingers over its curves. Then, with no further hesitation, she kicks off her boots, removing her hakama and kimono shortly thereafter. Striding over to the mirror, she takes in the sight of herself, bandaged, her hair ribbon swaying with the slightest of movements.

Well, if nothing else, whoever bandaged her up clearly had some knowledge of what needed to be done. Now, that begged the question of _who_ had bandaged her wounds. It is either a certain dragoon, or perhaps one of the chirurgeons of Ishgard.

Clawed fingers run over her damaged parts, applying light pressure to gauge the severity of the damage her recklessness had wrought. She winces when she applies pressure a mite bit too strong at her ribs. It seems she had undone at least two weeks of recovery. If one of her fathers had been present, she surely would be scolded for endangering her life in such a manner. The thought makes her smile, even as her heart aches for a land that seems distant enough to be a dream.

Satisfied that she does not need to change her bandages, she leaves her soiled robes on the floor. She cannot very well traipse through Ishgard with so blatant a bloodstain. Instead rummages through her things before pulling out clothing more suited for the cold and dreary winter of her present location. She dresses herself, leaving her boots by the bedside and folding her bloodied kimono.

She lays down upon the bed, fingers clasped around the sheathe of her blade akin to how lovers tenderly hold hands, yes, perhaps this is the closest she would ever be to a lover’s tender embrace. After all, there is none to hold her or offer words of comfort. Such dismal thoughts make the foreign surroundings all the more dreary, the light of the fire dimming as if to echo such sentiment. It seems the agony of injury pales in comparison to the wounds of the heart.

“Ah, mother, fathers, I am without a single person to call me by name. What should I do to rectify both this loneliness and the calling that beckons me further away?” Eyelids flutter closed, like the panicked sway of a butterfly caught within a wicked web. The grip on the blade loosens; half-lidded eyes observe the space between her and the blade. “Dearest blade, how much further will you accompany me? If nothing else, I hope you will be by my side at the very end.”

There are no words in response, the blade far more silent than the forge that birthed it. Yet the Xaela can feel an undeniable sense of warmth from the blade. She ponders, wonders, if that is what her teacher had meant when she had been told that this is the blade that suits her. The voice of her blade seems far away, as if she is listening to someone’s gentle whispers beneath the water’s surface.

Turning to face the ceiling she opens her eyes, only to glimpse severed wings of brilliant red fall from the ceiling beam.

It’s just an illusion. After all, Ishgard is too cold for butterflies—

 _Tomorrow_ , tomorrow everything will begin to fall into place.


End file.
